Tibo rolled onto his back in the sun-warmed grass, his four paws pointing straight up to the sky. He opened his mouth wide and let out a long, rumbling yawn that shook his whole tiny body. His eyes fluttered open—then froze. A tiny orange butterfly drifted past his nose, so close its wings tickled his whiskers.
Tibo dropped into a crouch, his striped tail swishing side to side. He crept forward on padded paws—step, pause, step. The butterfly zipped upward, and Tibo lunged! He missed by a whisker and landed with a soft *umph* in a pile of dry golden leaves. Undeterred, he shook himself off and padded behind a broad green fern.
From behind the fern, Tibo watched as the butterfly landed on a tall purple flower and dipped its long proboscis deep into the petals. He lifted one paw, then the other, his belly fur brushing the damp earth. He coiled his haunches, ears flattened back—then launched! The butterfly lifted off just as his nose touched the petals.
Tibo sighed and flattened his ears. Then he had an idea. He sat perfectly still, eyes half-closed, becoming as quiet as a stone. The butterfly circled once... circled twice... and finally, impossibly, it drifted down and settled right on the tip of his nose.
He didn't breathe. His whiskers trembled. The butterfly unfolded its wings slowly, stretching them in the warm light, and then—with a sudden flutter—it took off again. Tibo's eyes followed it as it darted across the clearing, and without thinking, he was off chasing.
The butterfly wove through the air in wild loops and zigzags, and Tibo scrambled after it—over a mossy log, around a fallen branch, his claws scrabbling for purchase on the soft earth. He leaped over a shallow puddle, water splashing up around his paws.
He scrambled over the mossy log on three legs, his belly fur brushing the damp green moss. He twisted in mid-air to avoid a low-hanging vine, tumbling head over tail. He landed with a soft roll into a thick patch of bright green clover and lay there for a moment, blinking up at the sky.
His roars of delight echoed through the trees—half purr, half growl, entirely happy. The butterfly circled overhead once, as if checking on him, then drifted lower and lower until it came to rest on a tall slender reed at the edge of the clearing.
Tibo collapsed onto his side beside the reed, his chest heaving, his tongue lolling out in a wide grin. He watched the butterfly fold its wings and rest. For a long moment, they stayed like that—two small creatures in the golden quiet of the clearing, sharing the warm afternoon sun.
Tibo lifted his nose and gave the reed the gentlest possible nudge. The butterfly's wings stirred, then lifted. It circled Tibo once—slowly, almost like a goodbye—then shot upward into the dappled leaves and vanished from sight.
Tibo stood up and scanned the leafy branches, his ears swiveling in every direction. He waited. The clearing was quiet again—just the buzz of beetles and the whisper of wind through the tall grass. But his tail still swished, and his eyes still sparkled.
A warm breeze ruffled his fur. Somewhere above, a single orange wing flashed between the leaves—a reminder that the clearing still held secrets, still held magic. Tibo let out a soft purr, rolled onto his back, and closed his eyes, dreaming of butterflies.